


Bat-Grinch Takes up Sounding

by Trista_zevkia



Series: Platonic [11]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Bondage, Butt Plugs, Costume Kink, Electricity, Identity Porn, M/M, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A memory is lost, so a new one is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bat-Grinch Takes up Sounding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladyblkrose](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ladyblkrose).



Blinking his eyes open, Gaza found himself disoriented. His dreams had been dark, full of winged creatures and pain. The waking world was bright and beautiful, with rich fabrics and a luxurious bed. But as it went with dreams, sometime they clung to his awareness, seeming more real than the world around him. Rolling to the side of the ridiculously large bed, Gaza had only just sat up when the door opened. Six of his servants raced in, responding to some signal that he didn’t hear or see.

The first time he’d woken up here, he’d tossed the little things away from him. Their cries of pain had brought in the honor guards from outside his door, who’d alerted his parents he was awake. The sight of the guards had been enough to make Gaza stop, and consider his surroundings, now and on that first morning. It was his dreams that involved red blood under his hands, a leak of crimson he couldn’t stop, that he had made himself stop trying to stem the flow, to stand up, turn and walk away. 

The guards didn’t have red blood, he could see theirs was orange as it pumped through translucent but diamond hard skin. The six legs and three arms were a bit of a giveaway too. Panting like he’d run a 10k, only to realize he didn’t have any memories of running a 10k or how he’d breathed afterwards, Gaza had looked at the little purple powder puffs that had started his fear response. Unless they were poisonous, or likely to multiply like tribbles, he didn’t see any threat there. What the hell were tribbles, he’d thought but been interrupted by his parents racing into the room, in a dignified, ruler of the universe way. 

They’d calmly explained, over a long period of time because he’d asked many, something in the range of a million, questions. After he’d been halfway convinced, he put in a request that the servants not come into his room until he was awake. It was a strange request, if the sharp looks between everybody around was any indication, but he didn’t want to beat up any more powder puffs than he had too. They agreed, though, and let him wake the next two days in a more natural way than beating on whatever was handy. It was still annoying as hell to not be able to put on his own clothes, an independence that didn’t fit in with what he’d been told about his life. 

There was a lot of mystical mumbo jumbo in there, about prophecies and treasure maps that had lead his parents to where they found him. He’d imagined a crater in a corn field, though they’d had no idea what he was talking about when he’d asked for cornbread. Father had been about two seconds from passing out when Gaza said he knew the recipe for cornbread if they had the ingredients. He’d supposedly been raised a prince for his whole life, and what prince didn’t make strange requests, though he couldn’t remember why something as ubiquitous as cornbread would cause confusion. 

He was a fighter, as he woke up fighting. From the way he hadn’t accepted their explanations, Gaza expected he was also an inquisitive, suspicious person. If they had raised him, why didn’t he feel anything for them? Supposedly, he’d been attacked while out touring another planet, and his attackers had done something to his memory. That would explain why he didn’t remember anything personal from before he woke up kicking, but didn’t do a thing to settle his intuition. He wasn’t sleeping well or long, which he told them was fear of his mysterious attackers. 

If his parents knew him all his life, why couldn’t they tell he was lying? 

The powder puffs helped him into the bathroom, and then he kicked them out. Maybe it wasn’t princely behavior, but he could lift his own damn dick while pissing. Was it weird that he wanted control over where he stuck his body parts? After staying in the bathroom as long as he was comfortable with, knowing they’d still be out there whenever he left his sanctuary, Gaza walked out and let them dress him. 

Intellectually, the walk down to breakfast should have been embarrassing. The powder puffs would surround him, humming a high pitched processional, announcing his walking to the world, like he was a toddler who’d just learned the trick. Gaza just found it annoying, and it got in his way of investigating what people were saying behind his back. He did wonder if that was deliberate planning on the part of his captors, or parents, whatever, they were the same thing according to teenagers. They acted concerned for him, so maybe he was just paranoid about their reasons for having a choir announce his every movement. 

When he caught his first sniff of breakfast, Gaza started wondering if eating the powder puffs would be frowned on. The food here was so bland, it would have made Dr. Graham have an orgasm. Not that Gaza could remember why he knew Dr. Graham had invented graham crackers to curb sexual appetites, or where he could get a tasty, sweet graham cracker right now. Dr. Graham might have been on to something there, as Gaza hadn’t had a sexual thought since he woke up. Apparently, the powder puffs weren’t his type, even if they did have limbs, unlike those blasted tribbles he couldn’t quite remember. 

“Prince Gaza, my liege.” 

Gaza stopped, and closed his eyes, so he could roll them without being seen doing so, at the redundancy of that, apparently mandatory, statement. Opening his eyes, Gaza (gladly) turned away from the food to speak to the guard. “Yes?” 

“Forgiveness, but your Lady Mother, Queen of Space, has requested your presence in the conversion hall.” 

“Lead the way.” Gaza ground out, forcing down the urge to yell at the guard. Was ‘Your Mom wants you in the torture chamber’ so hard to say? Not that Gaza had been there before, which was why he had the guard (surprisingly slow on six legs) leading. Torture chamber might also have been a slightly negative interpretation of the ‘conversion hall’ thing. For all Gaza knew, conversion could have been a pleasant process where they served tea and cookies while rationally discussing the issues dividing people. He just really didn’t think so. 

The guard led him to a hallway, where another guard led him to one of the round rooms off that hallway. In this room, his parents waited, and Mother seemed very pleased about something. Gaza got a sense of anticipation from Father; something was about to be tested. Maybe the prisoner, maybe Gaza. There was a prisoner, behind a mostly opaque force field. From the outline, Gaza could make out the prisoner didn’t have the large, bulbous heads of his adoptive parents, perched like a pumpkin on a scarecrow that’s lost all its stuffing. 

Stuffing and pumpkin pie! Yeah, he’d be thankful for some of that for breakfast. 

“Gaza, my sweetling.” Mother offered in a sickly sweet voice that was more likely to make Gaza want to arm himself than hug her. “Come see what Mother has found for you!” 

Stepping toward the force field, while keeping out of Mother’s long, thin arms was kind of a challenge, with the force field reducing the size of the round room. Mother touched a remote, dropping the force field, letting Gaza get a good look. The first thing he noticed was that they really had a circle theme going on here, as the prisoner was manacled into a frame with several hoops. A prisoner in a black uniform, exposing only his strong chin, plush lips and blue eyes peering out of the holes in the mask. There was a symbol on his chest, one of the bat creatures that haunted Gaza’s dreams, but Gaze knew something was missing from the strange outfit. A belt maybe? Gaza had to force his eyes to look away, look to Mother and ask. 

“He’s one of my attackers, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, love. He was captured, fleeing from our brave soldiers. They brought him here, so what do you think we should do with him?” 

“Interrogation.” Gaza didn’t look away from her, but he watched his next words carefully. He wanted information his parents didn’t want to give him. Even anarchists, like the prisoner before them, had their reasons, and Gaza liked to know reasons. “It would be best to know what his co-conspirators have planned.” 

“The guards did ask, rather nicely, on the way here. I’m afraid, his mouth had to be shut to cut off his flow of insults.” 

Mother had managed not to call him something dreadfully endearing, so Gaza knew something was up. He didn’t show it on his face, just chose the direction he thought they wanted him to go. It was nice here, clean and bright, which only made the fear that much more obvious. At least the fear wasn’t as bland as the food. 

“It distresses me to say it, Mother, but harsher methods may be called for.” 

“Oh, dear! Whomever shall we get to do such a thing, lumpling?” 

“It would be a difficult job to ask someone to do, perhaps I should do it myself?” 

“Sweety dear, that would be too much for your delicate sensibilities!” 

“Perhaps.” Gaza frowned, considering her words, or pretending to. He was actually wondering if asking for revenge would end this farce that his parents were nice, benevolent rulers. “Though, it might help me sleep better if I knew he wasn’t able to hurt me again.” 

“So wise, for one so young, my precious!” Mother pressed another button on her remote, and a guard brought in a trolley covered by a white towel. 

A towel covered trolley, Gaza thought with more than a little sarcasm, no one ever hid torture implements under a towel. 

“Guard!” Mother snapped out in a voice that echoed around the room. Considering the guard was less than two feet away, Gaza thought it was slightly unnecessary. “Remove the prisoner’s clothing.” 

With a bow, the guard moved to do as instructed. Like Gaza, he was careful to stay out of Mother’s reach. 

Yeah, Gaza thought, with even more sarcasm, that didn’t confirm my instincts at all. “Mother, Father, while I do need your support and guidance, and hope that you are always around to provide it, I think this might be easier on me if you were not in the room.” 

“Are you quite sure, smooches? I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you in your time of need.” 

And I wouldn’t dream of asking if you were recently attacked and now can’t remember my name, Gaza thought, but didn’t say. “Please, I would restrain myself, not wishing to offend you with what I might have to do.” 

“Oh, if it is a matter of necessity, we shall go, my dearest child.” 

Gaza endured her parting hug, just glad she was going. When the door closed behind her and Father, Gaza let his gaze return to the prisoner, the first person Gaza could remember seeing with a body like his. Two legs, two arms, proportional head. There was a lot to be said for proportional heads. The guard jerked into a bow when Gaza walked up beside him. The guard clearly expected to be beaten for not having removed the strange suit yet. 

“Guard, you may leave the room.” 

The guard’s eyes got huge as he thought about protesting, as leaving the crown prince with a prisoner wasn’t a good idea. Neither was defying an order of said prince when he was kindly ignoring your last mistake. A deepening of the bow, and the guard left. 

Gaza stepped forward, finding the catches and clasps of the uniform easily enough. Surprisingly easy, actually. Gaza looked up, and saw the prisoner was trying to speak. He had a clear plastic-like funnel in his mouth, and two dots on the outside of his throat. With these three things in place, he’d never be able to make a sound, which left Gaza to do all the talking. 

“So, I hear you’ve been trying to kill me.” Those bright blue eyes widened in shock, before the mouth started trying to protest. Gaza looked away, pulling off the chest piece and cape. The pants were next, but Gaza liked the mask and thought he’d leave it on for a while. 

“Don’t be like that, why would my parents and subjects lie to me? Oh, I know my subjects would lie at my parents orders, and they’re not really my parents, adopted you know, so that’s not a very good question. How about, why would the whole universe lie to me, and only you tell me the truth?” 

Getting the pants off, by knowing where the fabric could be stretched to make it come over the boots, which was a fascinating thing to know, Gaza pulled down the boxers. Oh, there was that lust that even bland foods couldn’t kill. This man did look a lot like Gaza, in the body, but the sight of his own cock hadn’t sent spikes of desire into his groin. Was it all cocks except his own, or this particular cock, with its dark pubic hair and hanging balls? 

“Here’s the deal, pretty boy. I have to get some information out of you, and I’ll do whatever it takes. You can only answer my questions when I put my hand on your throat, on one of those little dots you can feel sticking into your skin. So I suggest you answer my questions, accurately and honestly, or I’ll take my hand away and you won’t be able to beg. You will want to beg before I’m done with you, just fyi.” 

Gaza reached up, carefully curled his hand until just his index finger was straight, and the prisoner was looking at it. “My attackers, do they have other plans for me?” 

More surprise in those eyes, before they focused on the finger moving toward the prisoner’s throat. A press and the prisoner found he could answer. “Yes, we need to…” 

Gaza removed his finger, and held it in front of the prisoner’s face. Moving that finger side to side, Gaza demonstrated that wasn’t the correct response. Gaza wanted his information, yes, but he didn’t want his eavesdropping parents to know just how much he knew. “Answer only what I ask. Don’t ad lib. Who do you work for?” 

The finger moved back, but this time it was glared at. The prisoner did answer, with a heavy amount of complaint in his voice. “I work for the _Daily Planet_.” 

Gaza snorted, and kept his finger on the prisoner’s throat. “Daily? That’s a terrible name for a planet! What, does it have a year in most planets days or something?” 

“It’s good at stalling.” The prisoner shrugged his shoulders, as much as he could, spread eagle in a metal hoop. 

Hoops, circles, globes, planets, a golden planet, lit up and twirling on another planet. Underneath it, a shadow, and a spot of blue and red, brighter than the golden globe. His own eyes so large they were starting to dry out, Gaza reached out and pulled the cowl off his prisoner. 

“Clark?” 

Clark tried to hide his grin, tried to speak around the squishy funnel in his mouth that muffled all sound unless Bruce pushed the canceler on his throat. Bruce tossed the cowl away, to start tracing his hands over Clark’s exposed body as his memories came flooding back. 

The Javelin was so close to Earth, when they were attacked. Clark had managed to pick up a cold on the moon they were visiting, so he was in medical when they attacked, in civilian clothes. The Kardashinnein Empire had attacked there first, figuring that medical only held a fragile human. Bruce was in civvies too, and had beaten Flash to medical. Their attackers had sent a few more shots their way, while Bruce tried to pull the chunks of metal out of Clark so he could heal. The Kardashinnein Empire had demanded Kal-el turn himself over to them, or they’d destroy the rest of the people on the Javelin. 

Clark had needed medical care, and Bruce had hoped he’d at least buy J’onn the time he needed to fix Clark up before the Kardashinnein’s noticed the switch. They hadn’t noticed, accepting it was Kal-el wearing the El house shield, letting himself be walked into their ship and attached to a machine. It was supposed to erase his memory and implant a false one about his life with the Kardashinneins. Not even when it hadn’t worked had these morons realized they set a trap for a Kryptonian and caught a human. Clark had healed, put on the batsuit, and come to rescue him. But he’d said something about stalling. 

“You seem in good shape, prisoner. Obviously, my soldiers were not too interested in getting information out of you.” Bruce stepped back from where he’d been feeling Clark for injuries, and put on a thinking pose. “How many minutemen fight with you?” 

Bruce let realization shine in Clark’s face before moving in to press his throat. How many minutes do I need to stall, Clark, was the question he’d really asked. 

“Twenty or more.” 

Stall for twenty minutes, in a room with nothing but torture devices and hostile aliens watching on CCTV? Yeah, no problems there, as Bruce rolled his eyes to tell Clark. 

Clark gave a tiny shrug that could have been a movement to settle him into the manacles better. 

Bruce went to the tray of instruments, flipping the towel off like a magician revealing a trick. Holding each device up to where Clark could see it, Bruce activated it to see what he had at his command. Clark had felt human under his hands, and all the aliens he’d passed through to get here thought he was ordinary and human. That meant Clark had taken some form of synthetic kryptonite, one that would either pass out of his system in twenty minutes or the JL would come smashing through the roof. 

Either way, Bruce didn’t want to hurt Clark, because it might impede that exit strategy, not because Clark was too precious to damage or anything. But, he had to maintain the façade for his audience, before he tortured them for trying to make him think he had parents. Having that joy taken away was the real torture. That thought made Bruce look up, and Clark tried to flinch back from the half smile he saw on Bruce’s face. 

“You want to know something really interesting about pain?” 

Clark’s only available answer was facial expressions and eyes, but Bruce still heard him and his trepidation. 

“You can train the body to ignore pain, train the mind to move beyond it. You can’t do that with pleasure. You can try to ignore it, try to think around it, but you’re basically trying to outthink your brain, and that doesn’t work. Shall I demonstrate?” 

Clark swallowed so heavily, Bruce thought he might have swallowed the voice dampener. 

“Take this short little whip. Looks painful, and it can be. Let’s see what else we can do with it. I bet getting me to stop would be a snap of your fingers.” 

Clark gave a slow nod, which could have been his head sagging in defeat. He accepted that snapping his fingers was their safeword, here where they couldn’t speak. 

Bruce walked behind Clark, trailing the cat of nine tails up the back of Clark’s thighs. When Clark was almost relaxing into the gentle touch, Bruce gave a flick of his wrist, cracking the air around them. Clark jerked away, before he realized the whip hadn’t even touched him. Bruce gave a low chuckle, as they both knew he couldn’t fake too many lashes. 

“Relax, don’t anticipate me, I don’t think you could anyway.” 

Clark tried to look over his shoulder, glare at Bruce for that statement. True or not, it was still annoying of Bruce to bring it up. 

Bruce just used the handle to prod Clark’s chin until he was looking forward again. The next snap of his wrist did have the whip contacting Clark’s ass, and he alternated ass cheeks and thighs as he worked. The hoop that held Clark was straining as he twitched, unsure if he should move away from the wicked whip, or toward it. When his whole backside seemed to be flushed and warm, Bruce returned to press on Clark’s throat. 

“How many minutemen do you have?” 

Clark gave another small shrug. “Twenty or more?” 

Bruce returned the whip to the tray, thinking he’d have to have a talk about punctuality with the JL when they got back. Looking back at the things on the cart, Bruce thought of something that made him instantly hard. A search in the drawers on the trolley produced a lube like substance, which Bruce hoped Clark could handle. At least it wasn’t glowing green and labeled kryptonite. Taking the jar of lube and a metal thing behind Clark, Bruce set the lube between his feet. 

Then he was able to scoop out some and start working Clark’s anus open. Bruce took his time, figuring the JL would show up just when he got to the good part, but finally Clark was able to accept the metal thing as a buttplug. Still taking his time, Bruce got the thing securely in before taking the lube around to see Clark from the front. 

“Beautiful.” Bruce heard his voice say, but he was careful not to look at Clark’s face as he pressed on his throat. “How many minutemen?” 

“Thirty?” 

Bruce’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t say anything. At the trolley again, Bruce found a thing. Not the usual accuracy he tried for, but he didn’t know what purpose the clear, plastic doughnut would serve. It was cold to the touch, and Bruce carried it over to Clark, who looked as confused as Bruce had. But Brucie was an inventive pervert, capable of making do with whatever was available to spice things up. 

The hole in the doughnut was filled with Clark’s cock and he tried to move back and away from the cold. He couldn’t, so Bruce took pity on him. Sort of. With one hand in front of the doughnut and the other behind it, Bruce proceeded with a handjob. The doughnut never warmed, so Clark got the slide of heat, cold and heat, with that little twist Bruce knew would drive him insane. Clark came without warning, and silently. 

Bruce pulled the doughnut off, and checked his mental clock. Twelve minutes more, so what was he to do now? Returning to the trolley, Bruce got a long thin rod, and liberally coated it with lube. Clark jerked in surprise when Bruce put lube on his cockhead. Bruce didn’t look up from Clark’s penis as he spoke. 

“I’ve read all about this, but never found anyone to try it on. I’d suggest you hold still, or we’ll go from a lesson in pleasure to a lesson in pain before you know it.” Rod held over Clark’s cockhead, Bruce looked up at last, to ask for permission. “It’ll be a snap.” 

Clark thought about it, but gave another defeated head drop of a nod. He didn’t snap his fingers, so Bruce took a firm grip on Clark’s cock. Carefully, slowly, Bruce inserted the sound into Clark’s urethra. Once it was in, Bruce gave Clark a few experimental strokes. Clark moaned in such a way that Bruce could see it, even if he couldn’t hear it. Moving a hand up to his throat, Bruce asked again. 

“How many?” 

“F-fifteen.” Clark stuttered brokenly. 

Bruce took some comfort in knowing the number was at least getting smaller, even if Clark was just guessing about how long it would be until the JL showed up. Another turn to the trolley, and Bruce held what looked like a microphone from the 1980’s. He made a few adjustments, before touching it to the metal hoop holding Clark. Shaking and trying to pull away from all points of contact at once, Clark turned to stare at the microphone. 

“Just a bit of electricity to help things along. Didn’t you like that?” 

The voice dampener kept Clark from using his tongue to lick his lips, so he bit his bottom one instead. It wasn’t a snap of the fingers, so Bruce proceeded. 

Adjusting the microphone and touching it to the hoop several more times, Clark was almost getting used to the way the electricity sent a jolt from his ass to his cock. The last adjustment was made, and that jolt turned into a living stream of electricity, lighting on an infinite loop between his cock and ass. Clark wanted to howl, scream and come, but the sound stopped him and he still couldn’t make a noise. After the electricity stopped, Clark could still feel it, wanted to feel it, wanted Bruce to touch him and let him come. Bruce only touched his throat. 

“How many?” 

“More, please Br…” The name stopped as the man it was directed at sensed it coming, and moved his hand away. Clark tried to communicate with his eyes. 

“As I said, no resistance to pleasure.” Stepping away, Bruce made some adjustment to the hoop holding Clark. 

When it started moving, Clark had visions of astronauts on these gyroscopic hoops to train them for zero g’s, but he dismissed it as unimportant. The only thing important was coming, shouting Bruce’s name. Bruce understood, and touched the microphone to the outside of the thing. The electricity spun through Clark while he spun around, closing his eyes so all he knew was his pleasure. Suspended in such a way, Clark couldn’t focus on the voice in his head, a deep and calm voice but it wasn’t Bruce and he needed Bruce! 

As if in answer, Clark was shown himself spinning, while Bruce looked on. Bruce held the microphone to the frame with his left hand, jerking himself off with his right. His expression was dazed, as if overwhelmed by the beauty he saw. It was enough, and Clark came, shooting the sound across the room as the last of the synthetic k left him. The hoop fell apart, the electricity cutting off, but Clark only collapsed onto the rubble, and watched as Bruce came over him. 

Pulling off the voice dampener was difficult, because Clark’s arms held a rubbery quality he knew wasn’t from the restraints. 

“J’onn’s here.” Clark finally managed to say, as a distant explosion supported his words. He didn’t feel the urge to explain to Bruce that J’onn had helped him come by showing Clark what Bruce was doing. 

“Can we go home then?” Bruce asked in a voice as hoarse and lazy as Clark’s. 

“We were trying to, when you went and got yourself kidnapped for me.” 

“Your fan club should have higher admission standards and background checks.” 

“I’ll get right on that, after you get this buttplug out of my ass.” 

“You do that while I put the Batsuit on.” 

“Where’s my uniform?” 

“Don’t know, don’t care. You can wear our princely robes out of here.” 

“Get the buttplug out first.” Clark griped, but managed to roll toward Bruce. 

Bruce managed to get the thing out, and held it for Clark to see. He’d squashed the thing when he came, and laughed at the sight now. 

Bruce got to his feet, moving toward his suit. “Maybe you should keep it, as a souvenir.” 

“You can be so gross!” Clark sputtered, before sitting up and taking the clothes Bruce discarded. Clark only let himself smile when Bruce wasn’t looking, not wanting Bruce to read the thought in his mind. Bruce, alive and healthy, was the only souvenir Clark was interested in anymore. Though if that sound hadn’t imbedded itself in the wall, it would have been interesting to try on Bruce. Later. Right now they had an empire to bring down. 

sB _Sb_ Bs


End file.
